


Icarus Also Flew (everyone forgets that)

by Anonymous



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Fandom Stocking 2014, M/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-13
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-03-07 07:22:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3166304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bodie doesn't know why he heads off to the left when he gets to the scene, but he does—and it's a damn good thing, too, because otherwise they might never have found Ray at all. Wingfic for Sineala, begun in comments for fandom_stocking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Icarus Also Flew (everyone forgets that)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sineala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sineala/gifts).



> Apparently all I needed to get this into something resembling complete shape was a) for the deadline to pass and b) for a generous handful of random strangers to tell me they wanted to read more.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who was so incredibly kind about the unfinished snippet of this that I posted to Sineala's fandom stocking; and thank you to Sineala for listing wingfic among your likes and Pros as one of your fandoms in the same breath, which was all I needed to have the first three chunks of this come to me out of the ether. The rest of it I had to fight for—and I only wish the result had been the perfectly-crafted epic you deserve as truly proportionate thanks for all the enjoyment I've gotten from your fics over the years! I'm afraid you'll have to settle for this paltry offering instead. :)
> 
> I'm entirely new to Pros fandom, having only just watched the show for the first time this past year, and not British; apologies in advance for all Americanisms, location/continuity/medical errors, and other failures to adequately capture Bodie, Doyle, Cowley, and the general state and feel of Britain in the late '70s/early '80s. This fic deliberately fails to tangle with canon-era homophobia, for personal reasons. Title from the poem [Failing and Flying](http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/failing-and-flying), by Jack Gilbert.

> _What happened to Susie Carter?_

> _Thought she was Icarus._

—Everest Was Also Conquered

  


  


Bodie doesn't know why he heads off to the left when he gets to the scene, but he does—and it's a damn good thing, too, because otherwise they might never have found Ray at all.

The explosion was half underground, in a complex that's apparently got a mile or so of tunnels underneath, and it's the collapsed part everybody's looking at; but a fair amount of the building is still standing, and that's where Ray is.

They're floors and floors up, ten or maybe twelve, but Bodie knows what he's looking at as soon as he sees it: that's Ray, cornered, striking out; that's one gunrunner, falling; that's the second gunrunner, catching Ray in the ribs and then in the head, and maybe the long dark thing in his hands is a board or maybe it's a pipe, but either way he's hitting Ray with it _again_ , bastard, and then—

Bodie would have liked to be able to say, later, that he measured it all out coolly—that he put Ray's life in one hand and the _thing_ in the other and weighed them, and deliberately chose one over the other.

But that's not how it happens at all. Bodie sees it like the frames of a movie played slow, flashing one at a time in front of his eyes: the gunrunner kicking Ray, the gunrunner slamming whatever he's got against Ray's head again, the gunrunner setting his foot against Ray's chest and shoving, shoving, until Ray's at the edge of the catwalk; and then Ray's suspended, limp and half-tipped, still more on the catwalk than off; and then Ray falls, _Ray falls_ , and Bodie is already in the air.

  


*

  


The _thing_ has happened to Bodie more times than Bodie would like—one time would've been more times than Bodie would like, and it didn't stop there.

When he was a kid, a few times—running around the neighborhood, getting shoved off railings and scaffolds and fuck knows what else by the sort of lads who got their rocks off making other lads cry. It's just luck they only saw once, and that had been the last time. They let him alone after, didn't come near him again, though they didn't mind standing at a distance chucking bottles and pieces of brick at him now and then.

Once, in the Paras, during training—some kind of foul-up with his chute, he'd been dropping like a rock until he hadn't anymore. He'd fallen fast enough to get clear of the rest of the squad, and then the wind had caught him well enough that he'd landed a fair bit off target; nobody'd seen it happen, and he'd had enough time on the ground to wrench his chute open by hand, spread it out like it had deployed. He'd tangled it up in a tree, let them find him swearing and hanging sideways in his harness, and everybody'd been much too busy taking the piss to ask any funny questions.

Twice, with CI5, both times before he'd been partnered with Doyle—he'd never meant to, but one time an assassin had tried to shove him off a roof, and another time a terrorist had pushed him backwards out of a helicopter. The first time he'd fallen into the space between two buildings, both abandoned; the only person who'd seen had been the assassin, and Bodie had carefully made sure to hit him on the head enough times that nobody'd listened to him. The second time it had been raining, fog everywhere. The terrorist had sworn that she'd pushed him out too far for him to catch the copter's skid, but that's where he'd been by the time they'd landed, so nobody'd listened to her, either.

(Once, all right, once—he'd done it on purpose. When he'd first got back from Africa, before he'd ever even heard of Cowley; one day, between odd jobs, when nobody'd been expecting him anywhere, nobody'd been remotely likely to come looking for him. He'd done up all the locks, closed the shutters and the blinds, shut himself up in the bathroom with a towel over the vent. He'd taken off his shirt and looked in the mirror and _made_ it happen, just—just to see.

After that, he'd always wanted a little bit to do it again, which was how he'd known he shouldn't.) 

He's never done it on purpose to catch himself, never tried to catch anybody else, and he's sure as hell never used the _thing_ to actually fly.

Figures he'd end up doing it for Ray.

  


*

  


Ray falls, and there's nothing underneath him but twelve stories of air and a whole lot of rubble, until Bodie gets there.

Bodie doesn't do it right—he doesn't know what he's doing, he doesn't know _how_ to do it right. He doesn't even try to slow down, he's too busy trying to catch up to Ray in time, so it's sheer bloody luck that he overshoots and ends up having to dive a little. As it is, his arms are going to be black and blue, and so is Ray; but it beats having Ray's brains splattered all over the pavements. Fair trade—or unfair trade but in Bodie's favour, which is how Bodie likes it anyway.

It would make sense if catching Ray were to drag him down; Ray only looks light, the wiry bastard. But the _thing_ has never made sense and isn't inclined to start: Bodie bobbles a little trying to turn the dive into a glide, and that's it. Generally speaking, Bodie's not usually right end up when he has to worry about a hard landing; none of his hand-to-hand training about taking falls right is any use with this. But he was in the Paras—he manages to come down without breaking either of his ankles, and he doesn't even drop Ray. The _thing_ stops then, though, which throws Bodie off a little. He ends up shuffling down onto his knees, losing a chunk of his trousers and probably some skin when he skids a little; but it lets him get his balance back, and he gets his arms under Ray properly and then hauls himself back to his feet.

Behind him and twelve stories up, the gunrunner is shouting disbelieving obscenities—or maybe just blaspheming, it's a bit hard to tell from here. Bodie hefts Ray a little higher and starts to pick his way out of the rubble, one step at a time. It's going to take him a while to get back to level ground. Plenty of time to figure out what to say.

  


  


* * *

  


  


Ray's out cold, which has already solved three or four different problems—even setting aside that it means he probably didn't have a chance to see much, it's also kept Bodie from having to deal with any flailing or shouting or kicking on the way down, which would have made a hard landing even harder. Depends on when he passed out, whether it was the last hit that did it or he went as he was falling—but odds are on the hit, surely, and Bodie's got other things to worry about.

Out cold, but still breathing: whistling a little on the exhales, looks like one of the gunrunners may have broken his nose, and Bodie's never heard a better sound in his life. Ray's face is all over blood, from the nose and from a slice crossing his forehead, and Bodie just hopes the kicks and the blow to his torso didn't break a rib or puncture a lung—but, god, if the gunrunner'd staved in Ray's head with one of those hits—if Bodie had done the _thing_ , broken all the rules he's ever not quite set himself about it, and had caught nothing but Ray's corpse—

Ray's out cold, but still breathing. Bodie clambers over a particularly large chunk of rubble and wobbles, almost has to drop Ray's legs for a second; but he manages to turn his forearm over beneath Ray's knees, catch himself on his hand without Ray sliding out of his arms entirely. The gunrunner Ray didn't take out saw the whole thing, but his credibility's already going to be low, and there's a chance Bodie can drop it even lower—this operation was dealing in drugs, too, side business to help finance the larger buys. If Bodie can drop a hint that this bloke may've been sampling his own goods in his spare time, that should seal the deal.

One more heave and they're up and over the worst of the mess. Bodie takes the opportunity to glance around—Jax is only just rounding the corner, eyes widening as he takes in the blood all over Ray and starts talking low and fast into his R/T. Nobody else from CI5 saw, then, if Jax is the first one to come round this side of the building after Bodie; and civilians were evacuated from the immediate area a good hour ago.

Don't lie more than you have to. Keep it simple, don't give yourself anything to trip over. Make things easier for yourself, not harder. Bodie learned best practice when it comes to deception a long, long time ago. Bodie caught Ray; no point trying to hide that, when Ray's going to have bruises in the shape of Bodie's arms across the backs of his thighs, in a line across his shoulders. The only part that needs hiding is just how far it was that Ray fell.

  


*

  


Seems Jax was calling for EMS, or calling somebody else who had—he stows his R/T and meets Bodie halfway, helps Bodie lower Ray to the ground and check him over more carefully, and not three minutes later there's an ambulance. Cowley probably calls them in advance these days; Bodie can picture them waiting at the perimeter in a line, lights already flashing, until they get radioed the all-clear.

"Dumped him off the building," Bodie says, and Jax grimaces.

"Spine?" he says. "Neck?"

Bodie shakes his head. Neck—Bodie hadn't thought of that, but the worst that seems at all likely is whiplash, a bad strain from the sudden change in velocity. If Ray's neck had broken, surely Bodie would have heard it. "Caught him. They were two floors up, tops—I caught him."

The paramedics are thundering closer in Bodie's peripheral vision, but Jax doesn't turn his head—he's looking at Bodie, smile creeping wide across his face, and then he laughs. "Of course you did," he says, shaking his head.

"And I'll have the bruises to prove it," Bodie adds, carefully rueful, and then the medics are there and it's back to facts, easy: where they hit Doyle, how many times, that he hadn't come to yet but it hadn't even been ten minutes since he'd lost consciousness.

By the time they've carted Ray away, agents have swarmed this side of the building, and two of them are hauling a struggling man out of the ground floor—a struggling man with a familiar way of shouting obscenities.

Bodie's still three steps away from him when Cowley's presence registers; and beneath the anger, the fear, the concern for Ray, a cold clockwork part of Bodie's mind is ticking away: that'll change the approach. Not too direct, not too obvious—Cowley collects his own facts, constructs his own narratives. Trying to feed him a story too clearly only ever makes him doubt it.

"You!" the gunrunner cries. " _You_ —"

"If I ever get alone in a room with you, you're a dead man," Bodie says, low and chilly, and then he's close enough to fist his hands in the gunrunner's shirt. "Two floors, for Christ's sake—"

The gunrunner laughs—high-pitched, nearly hysterical. Good. Makes him sound even further round the twist. "Twelve! Twelve," and he looks past Bodie to Cowley, sideways to the agents holding his arms, beseeching. " _Twelve_ , my hand to God—and then you, you—never seen anything like it—"

Bodie laughs back at him, harsh. "Twelve and he'd be dead, you mad bastard," and Bodie lets the anger leak across his face, shakes the man once and then again, shoving at him hard enough to make the agents holding him stumble—

"All right, 3.7, all right," Cowley says, brisk and calm as ever even though the uneven ground must be hell on his leg. "Back off."

"Sir," Bodie manages, and lets Mays and—Jenson? Benson?—haul the gunrunner out of his grasp. He turns and meets Cowley's eyes: Cowley's looking at him with an even dark gaze, not unkind. Cowley's never his hardest with Bodie when Bodie's got Ray's blood on him.

"We've found a secondary storage area they didn't manage to blow in time," Cowley says. "Plenty of evidence, and plenty of charges to lodge against them—add holding Doyle on top of it and they won't be seeing sky for a long, long time." He pauses for a carefully measured beat. "Plenty to process, too, Bodie, so I won't be needing your debrief 'til after you've had a chance to clean yourself up."

"Yes, sir," Bodie says, and tries to remember what words might have been on the side or the back of the ambulance, what colours or shapes in any logos, as he turns away.

"Oh, and, Bodie—" Cowley says, tone knowing.

Bodie turns back.

"If the hospital calls to complain, I will disavow all knowledge of you."

"Sir," Bodie agrees, and goes.

  


  


* * *

  


  


"Not bad," the nurse says quietly, "not bad at all. Some very deep bruising, but any internal bleeding appears to have been slight; several cracked ribs, but none broken; no internal organs ruptured. The nose is a simple fracture. The head wound required stitches. He has a concussion, of course, but it doesn't appear to be severe—at this point, we're attributing the loss of consciousness to a combination of pain, exhaustion, and other factors—"

"Other factors," Bodie repeats, pleasant.

The nurse flips a page on the chart. "Dehydration, low blood sugar—it appears Mr. Doyle hadn't eaten for approximately thirty-six hours, which isn't dangerous in and of itself for a man in Mr. Doyle's physical condition, but probably contributed. Mr. Doyle has suffered concussions on multiple previous occasions," she adds, "so we'll be keeping him overnight for observation. But there's no reason to assume he won't be released first thing in the morning."

Bodie doesn't let himself close his eyes. He knows how relieved he is; the nurse doesn't need to. "Thanks, love," he says instead, following all the familiar steps like a dance: half a smile, turn it a bit rakish with the slant of the mouth, wait for that look—if she gets that look, wink—if she doesn't, back off.

The nurse doesn't get that look; she folds her arms over the chart, pinning it to her chest, and gazes at Bodie steadily. "I received a call from a Mr. Cowley," she says, "about thirty seconds before you came in. He said to ignore it if you smiled."

It should be frightening, to be seen through, but it only feels like a weight off—like being given permission to not be all right. Bodie ignores the sensation, stays focused; but he lets himself stop smiling. "Thanks, love," he says again, more quietly, and this time it's the nurse who smiles, brief but kind.

"Once we'd evaluated the concussion as minor," she says gently, "we gave him a little something for the pain—not that you can't see him, if you'd like, but I thought you should know he may not be terribly coherent."

"He never is," Bodie murmurs, and the nurse laughs and shows him where Ray is.

  


*

  


Bodie looks at Ray for a minute—a minute almost exactly, that's what he gives himself. Bodie stares, careful and memorizing, and then he looks away but can keep looking, in his head. Stitches, yeah: not too many, though, neat and black, and across Ray's forehead that way meant they hadn't even had to shave off any of his hair. Ray would be glad about that, and Bodie could make fun of him for being glad about it, which would be almost as good as it would have been to make fun of how weird Ray's hair looked growing back. Simple fracture of the nose—that meant it didn't go into the cheekbones or anything and would pretty much heal by itself, if let alone. Bodie risks another glance: he was right the first time round, Ray's nose isn't nearly as swollen as Bodie might have expected. Maybe they've already iced it some. Ray's chest is probably coming up purple-black in places, boot-printed, but Bodie can't see that part. All told, considering he got shoved off a building, Ray looks better than he's got any right to look.

There's a timer ticking down in Bodie's head; fifteen minutes or so and he'll have stretched things about as far as they ought to be stretched before he goes to Cowley's office. He sits in the chair by Ray's bed and looks out the window, listens to that timer count away the seconds and reviews Ray's face in his head. In the end, he's looking at that carefully acquired memory in his mind's eye so hard that he has no idea how long Ray's eyes are open before he notices.

"Ray," he says instantly, and Ray blinks at him, slow—Ray's eyes are half-mast at most, sedatives or the broken nose or both, but definitely open. "Ray—"

"Some'n' happened," Ray slurs. "Saw you."

Bodie freezes in his chair. He should have known, he should have bloody known—the fucking _second_ the nurse had said it: _attributing the loss of consciousness to pain, exhaustion, other factors_ , which meant _not_ to the hit on the head, damn Ray Doyle and his cast-iron skull. Bloody fucking _fuck_.

It doesn't show. Bodie doesn't let it. "Damn right you saw me," he says, not too loudly, "I only saved your stupid arse," and he huffs out half a laugh, the way he would if nothing were going horribly, inevitably wrong at all.

"Saw you," Ray repeats in a murmur, damning; and then his eyes close again, and Bodie mutters low ordinarinesses at his sleeping face—glad you're all right; suppose you need the sleep, don't you, dozy sod; be back in the morning—and then gets the hell out.

  


*

  


It's fine. It's fine. Ray hadn't known what he was talking about. Ray has a concussion, Ray's been hit on the head, Ray's drugged. Ray hadn't seen what he'd thought he'd seen, got confused, dreamed it while in hospital—

Bodie realizes he's taking the stairs three at a time. He reaches the next landing and forces himself to slow down, to toss a brisk polite smile at the next three people he sees: the worried-looking woman coming up the stairs next, the little boy by the hospital front desk clinging to a balloon, the harried nurse who nearly runs into him as he goes out the front doors. Walk away, but not like you're running. Nothing to run from. It's fine. By the time Ray's checking out in the morning, he'll probably have forgotten saying anything to Bodie, and his rational mind will already have picked apart what he thought he saw. He'll already doubt it, and he'll have to bring it up all anew in the cold light of day just to ask Bodie about it again; and if he does, Bodie can laugh in his face and that'll be the end of it.

It's fine.

  


  


* * *

  


* * *

  


  


Ray probably could drive himself back to his flat from the hospital. Yeah, all right, he's lately concussed; but Ray Doyle has driven cars, trucks, and heavy machinery of various kinds while being shot at, stabbed at, and once while actively bleeding out.

Except it's damned unpleasant, and Bodie knows from unpleasant. Getting out of hospital's bad enough—still aching all over, usually, and even when it's low-grade, that kind of gritty constant pain wears a man out; a body that usually does what it's told with such glorious efficiency is turned into a groaning whinging mess, not even the smallest movement quick or easy anymore. And with a head that feels like Ray's must, having to concentrate on the road and move your eyes and hands and feet? Bodie's not a nice man, but he's not _that_ cruel.

And if Ray—if Ray wants to say anything, or ask any odd questions—well. Better he do it to Bodie. Better he do it where Bodie can handle it, shut it down and have that be the end of it, instead of leaving him to stew over it. Or leaving him to go round Bodie instead of through. If Ray waited 'til they were both back at CI5, got past Bodie to Cowley—or asked to be allowed to interview the gunrunner who hit him, for Christ's sake—

Bodie pulls up outside the hospital and tells himself to quit thinking about it. It's not going to happen.

  


*

  


Ray leans against the passenger window while Bodie drives them both back to Ray's flat, eyes closed, soaking up the sun—it's early enough in the day that the light's still a bit gold, looks warmer than it is, and the way Ray's face relaxes under it makes it look warm, too. Bodie lets himself glance over during every third traffic light. Times like this, it's more tempting than usual to call Ray "sunshine"—better not, though, Bodie tells himself, and keeps driving, leaves Ray in peace.

It's not too hard to get Ray out of the car once they arrive, nor up the stairs; he's not that badly hurt, after all, just sore and tired. His nose hardly even looks swollen today, though he'd better not sneeze for another couple weeks. He smiles at Bodie once they get through the door to his flat, and Bodie looks away and says, "Oh, go on, sit down. What've you got round here that's fit to eat?"

A couple tins of tomato soup is the answer, and Bodie doesn't look any further—that'll be fine, something warm and easy to swallow, not too heavy in case Ray gets nauseated later.

He'd thought to himself in the car that maybe he'd been right the day before: maybe Ray had forgot, or decided it was a dream. But as he moves back and forth in Ray's kitchen, heating up the soup and getting down a couple bowls, fishing out clean spoons, he can feel Ray's eyes on him. Not the gimlet gaze Ray sometimes turns on suspects, on people who've hurt other people in front of him—just steady pressure, not looking away, like he's got something to say and he's waiting 'til he thinks there's a chance Bodie'll listen to it.

Well, he can just keep on waiting, Bodie thinks viciously, and he doesn't look over at Doyle; he just keeps moving round the kitchen, normal, easy, nothing to see here.

  


*

  


Whatever it is he's got trapped behind those uneven teeth, Doyle doesn't say it while Bodie's pouring them both soup; he doesn't say it while they're eating, nor even when Bodie brings the case up himself, filling Doyle in on everything he'd missed because the gunrunners had grabbed him before the investigation was half done. He listens intently, laughs when Bodie means for him to laugh, and through it all he watches Bodie steadily, unwavering.

In the end, at least it isn't Bodie who cracks. He's always been better at waiting than Doyle. He gathers up their bowls and takes them to the sink, telling Doyle how they'd figured out which abandoned building in particular was the right one; and Doyle lets him finish and then says, "Christ, you're dodging hard."

"Hmm?" Bodie says, as if inattentive. Not like Doyle can hear his heart pounding.

"You hate doing the washing up," Doyle says, soft.

Bodie twists the tap into life and lets one bowl fill up with water, watching the surface surge and froth and doing his absolute best not to—not to fucking _hate_ Doyle for saying it. For unapologetically breaking the illusion instead of letting Bodie keep believing, instead of just going along for _once_ in his bullheaded life. What is it Doyle has against things being easy, anyway? Except that's a stupid question, really. Doyle can't stand to make things easier for _himself_ most of the time, let alone anybody else.

"Try to do a friend a favor," Bodie murmurs, light but loud enough for Doyle to hear over the water, and then he shuts off the tap and meets Doyle's eyes, his own expression so perfectly bland and gleaming he could pass for dishware himself. "Well, if you'd rather I didn't, you're welcome to them. You're supposed to rest, mind you—or at least that's what the pretty nurse said, and yes, Doyle, I _was_ listening. Multitasker, aren't I? Then again, I'd wager doing the dishes might very well count, mightn't it, strapping lad like you." Too much, Bodie thinks, he's talking too much and doing it too fast. He breaks off, deliberate, to shoot Doyle a goading, almost camp sort of look, and then he turns away for his jacket, and at that point it's been time enough that he can start up again, say, "Reckon I should leave you to it, then—" and three steps, two, one, will have him at Doyle's door—

"You can't think I'm going to forget."

Bodie's swung the door half open by the time Doyle says it, his foot's on the threshold—he can _taste_ freedom, dammit, one more step and they're both saved from everything Doyle's idiot pitbull stubbornness is about to bring down. Except—

Except Bodie's never been any good at leaving Ray behind. Not even to save his own skin.

Bodie's already given it all away by lurching to a halt: the skid's already started, it's just the car hasn't flipped yet.

"You can't think I'm going to forget," Ray repeats, and for all that it's quieter the second time, it's got no less iron in it. "You can't think I'm going to stop wondering whether I'm going mad, whether I've already gone—whether you'd just rather I thought I were than _tell_ me. You—Bodie. I _saw_ you."

Bodie turns, involuntary—brake pedal pressed to the floor but the car refusing to slow, he thinks, and then tells himself to give up the fucking metaphor and crash already. He looks at Ray; and the looking alone makes Ray half laugh, incredulous.

"Christ," Ray says, breathless, a hand to his ribs after the laugh. "Christ, it _is_ true. I saw and I still half thought I was losing it, but you really—you really—"

" _Stop_ ," Bodie snarls, vicious, "shut _up_ , for God's sake why don't you ever know when to _shut up_ —" He moves quickly, angrily—he's angry at Ray and he's angry at himself, because he's done so well for so long and now with one look he's ruined it, it's all coming down round his ears. Ray doesn't dodge, doesn't so much as flinch, and Bodie pins him against the wall with his hands wrapped round Ray's collar and presses close, too hard, against Ray's injured ribs.

He moves quickly; but not quickly enough. Ray's not doubting himself, not now that Bodie's handed him reason not to. Ray's not afraid—and when Ray's not afraid it's like the goddamn light of God is shining out of him, his face bold and bright and certain. "Do it," Ray says, tilting his chin up, and for a moment Bodie's confused: they wouldn't be who and where they are if they were afraid of pain, but trying to bait Bodie into punching him in the face when his nose is already broken—? But then—"Do it," Ray says again. "I want to see," and now Bodie knows what he means.

"You—" Bodie half-repeats, stalling out, and with the words gone he shoves Ray instead.

"I want to see," Ray says, unwavering.

Bodie curses and pushes him again, and this time he lets go of Ray's shirt so that Ray stumbles sideways, skidding along the wall—he swings toward the door, but even that won't get him out of this. Ray's got his teeth into it now, running will only make it worse.

"Bodie," Ray says behind him. "Let me see."

And Bodie—Bodie closes his eyes, and does.

  


*

  


Bodie doesn't turn to face Ray, he doesn't want to—he doesn't take off his jacket or shirt either. The _thing_ hasn't ever ripped his clothes, it won't start now; and Bodie doesn't want to give up the armour of it, won't hand Ray this and his bare skin besides.

Bodie does something there aren't any words for, and the _thing_ is a burst of light at his back, like always. He doesn't know where it comes from or where it goes, he never has, and he doesn't know how the narrow dusty sunbeams of it have ever held him up—it's shaped like feathers, layered like feathers, but as far as he can tell it isn't made of anything but light. _They_ aren't, Bodie makes himself think, the two of them, the—wings.

"God Almighty," Ray says after a long moment, hushed; and then, "Don't you dare," before Bodie can even open his mouth to say _Nah, 'Bodie' will do._ "How long?" is next—second only to a bloody debriefing, Ray is.

"Forever," Bodie says, because as far as he knows, it's true. His mum never said anything to him about when he was born, whether anything strange happened—then again his mum had never said much of anything to him at all, so who knew. "As long as I can remember," he amends, because that at least is genuinely accurate.

Ray goes quiet again, and Bodie's actually considering biting the bullet, seeing whatever look it is that's in Ray's eyes, except then there's a—like a static shock or something, a spark leaping back there, and Bodie jerks and turns halfway round before he means to. Ray's standing there behind him, nearer than he was after Bodie shoved him, with his hand out, his eyes wide. "Did I hurt you?" Ray says.

"No," Bodie says, "no. Just—nobody's ever—I've never—"

" _You've_ never touched them?" Ray says, visibly astounded.

" _No_ ," Bodie says. "I don't just—take them out, walk round my flat with them, I don't leave them out—" He cuts himself off, because what words does he have that'll help? It's a _secret_ , he wants to say, a secret he's been trying to keep from himself as much as anyone, but of course Ray won't understand; Ray's never met a feeling he wasn't all right talking about, never found himself afraid to shine a light on his own soul. Bodie draws attention, sure: when he _chooses_ to, always conscious of what other people see when they look at him, always knowing how to make sure they never see too much. And Ray's never understood the instinct Bodie has to smooth himself over that way, to _bury_ , to keep everything that's too true or stands out or might hurt hidden away where it can't be got at.

"Bodie," Ray says quietly. "Bodie. They're beautiful. They're—" His mouth is quirking, the look Ray gets when he knows he's about to sound ridiculous but he's going to say whatever it is anyway. "They're—wondrous," Ray finishes after a moment.

Bodie takes a step back, almost doesn't notice himself doing it until it's done, and—lets go, maybe, is the best way to say it. The light stops, behind him, and then it's just him and Ray, standing in Ray's kitchen, mid-morning on a sunny day.

"Don't—don't," Bodie says, hoarse and wretched, but clearing his throat won't help because it's words that are stuck there, none of him quite sure what it is he wants Ray not to do: look at him like that, say those things—

"I'm not an idiot," Ray says, stepping near where Bodie'd stepped away, bringing them closer together again. "I know who you are, Bodie—you dumb crud, you—you thickheaded monkey. You've not— _tricked_ me or some shit. I know you're not an angel. Bodie—I know who you are."

Ray says it almost gently the second time, and Bodie can't stand it, can't look at him—Bodie closes his eyes, and so he feels it instead of seeing it when Ray moves closer still.

"Nobody's ever," Ray murmurs thoughtfully, a deliberate echo. "You've never. You don't just take them out. Except you did back there, didn't you? For me."

"To save your leaden arse—" Bodie manages.

"No," Ray says, and at that Bodie opens his eyes again—his mouth's half open to object, but he stops at the look on Ray's face. "There's nothing you wouldn't do to save my life," Ray clarifies. "I know that. But that's not what I'm talking about, Bodie. You did it after, here. Because I asked."

The bottom falls out of Bodie's gut, a swoop like dropping—and there aren't any wings that can ever catch him against this, against Ray so neatly digging up the deepest thing Bodie ever decided to bury—

"Don't be stupid," Ray says, low and odd and fond; and he wraps his hand round the edge of Bodie's jaw and kisses him.

  


  


* * *

  


  


( _A few weeks later:_

"A moment, Mr. Bodie?"

Bodie exchanges glances with Ray: Ray's not quite smiling, but his gaze is bright, amused. _Better you than me, mate._ Bodie makes a sour face in return and closes the door on it before turning round and presenting Cowley with the most blandly polite expression he's got. "Sir," Bodie says.

Cowley looks at him calmly and hefts a folder—looks like every other damn folder on his desk, which is why it's such a fucking shock when the next thing he says is, "Report's come back from the Bulfinch case. The gunrunners—you remember?"

"Yes, sir," Bodie says. Very much to his credit, he thinks, that it comes out sounding normal.

"Very interesting reading," Cowley says, mild. "Particularly the forensics. Did you know, Bodie—our team uncovered no evidence whatsoever of any significant altercation occurring on the second floor?"

"Is that so, sir," Bodie says.

"Oh, yes, indeed," Cowley says. "In point of fact, it appears Doyle was being held on the—" He pauses and flips the folder open, scans down the first page—probably that's not even the page it's written on, Bodie thinks distantly. Crafty old goat, the Cow. "Ah, yes—the twelfth floor. Numerous signs of struggle up there. Quite a fight; all indications are that it ended, apparently precipitously, on the edge of a balcony on that same floor. Intriguing, isn't it, Mr. Bodie?"

Bodie says nothing.

Cowley looks at him silently, waiting, and then closes the folder again and sets it down. "This is the only copy of the full report, Mr. Bodie; and accidents do happen."

Bodie blinks. "Accidents, sir? I'm not sure that I—"

Cowley makes a small scolding noise, _tch_. "Oh, can it, Bodie. When three people in three completely separate incidents who've no contact with one another say the same damn thing about _anyone_ , I pay attention. Give me some credit, man!"

Bodie swallows.

Cowley stares at him, flat, and then glances back down at the folder. "My agents are the best of the best, Bodie," he says, calm again, "and I expect them to make full use of their skills in pursuit of CI5's mission. _All_ their skills. Am I understood?"

"Yes, sir," Bodie says, blank, rote, and then swallows again, blinking, and tells himself to get a goddamn grip. "Yes, sir, absolutely."

"Excellent," Cowley says, and then raises his eyebrows. "That will be all.")

  


  



End file.
